


Meant To Be

by greenjello94



Series: It Was Always Meant To Be [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Depression, First Time Meeting, John is very depressed, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Sherlock is more "comforting" at times and also "cold" at times, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjello94/pseuds/greenjello94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ExchangeLock prompt: What if Mike hadn't introduced John to Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meant To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for the lovely tumblr user: jfcmartin.tumblr.com ^.^

John made his way through the park. He just had a conversation with his old pal Mike Stamford and he was currently in a rather depressing mood. Seeing Mike brought up many memories of being a med student and having the ability to use those skills. Now, he was a 32-year old crippled man who was jobless and alone. John continued his way back to his crappy bedsit, dangerous thoughts growing in his mind.

At the bedsit, John sat on his bed, a gun in his left hand and an almost empty bottle of whiskey in his right. The hand with the gun shook slightly, the tremor going through his whole left side. He took another gulp of the burning liquid. After ten minutes, John got up slowly and then placed the gun back in its drawer, and threw the now empty bottle away.

*

John woke up the next morning, with a terrible headache and a painfully empty stomach. He sluggishly made his way to the bathroom to find himself staring back at him through the mirror and the sight was not what he had expected. The man in the mirror was unpleasant-looking, with dark circles under his eyes, his skin paler than it’s ever been, and his cheekbones and chin were jutting dangerously out. His depression, anxiety, and nightmares were etched across his face. Before realization dawned on him, his stomach cramped and whatever was left in his stomach made its way up causing John to be sick into the sink. After a few dry heaves, John rinsed out his mouth and without a second glance at the mirror, he limped his way back to bed.

*

The second time John woke up it was almost seven at night. He stretched, his hangover nearly gone along with the headache, but his whole body ached and his stomach was still aching and empty. He reluctantly got out of bed and limped his way to the bathroom only to be greeted with the same sight of him from earlier. He took a deep breath; not wanting to accept this was his life he slowly prepared for a shower. It was in the shower that the realization on his finally dawned on him. He wanted to die. The scary, unsettling realization made him feel sick but the idea of ending his misery was enough for him to turn the shower off and slowly but effectively dry off and put on some cleaner clothes.

After all that, John sat on the bed, his gun in his hand. He sat there, and after what must’ve been over 30 minutes, he let out a sob, throwing the gun aside and curling up, his body shaking as the tremors and the tears left his body. It wasn’t until his tears were all gone did he wipe his face and limped his way out of his bedsit, gun tucked in his waistband hidden by his jacket and on his way to Regents Park. He knew this was the thing he had to do. He didn’t feel alive and wanted it to end and believed doing it in a more peaceful setting would be better. And if he did it in the park, he would be found sooner than if he did it in his bedsit. The smell would probably cause alarm if he did it that way. John called a cab and entered it, giving the cabbie directions.

It wasn’t until 20 minutes later did John realise the cabbie wasn’t taking him to the park. He knocked on the glass and spoke, his voice cracking.

“Sir, I asked you to take me to Regents Park. We should’ve been there by now.”

“Oh, don’t you worry sir, I’m taking you to exactly where you need to be.” The cabbie replied, pulling up in front of what appeared to be a school. John’s defenses went up, but he didn’t know what to do as the cabbie swiftly got out and opened John’s door, aiming a gun at him. “Come along now.” The cabbie ordered.

John reluctantly followed the cabbie into the school. The cabbie remained silent and drifted behind John, the gun aimed in between his shoulders.

“In here.” The cabbie broke the silence, and walked in front of John opening a door, still pointing the gun at John. John went into the dimly lit room and the cabbie followed behind leading them to sit face to face at one of the tables.

“What do you want?” John asked, slowly but clearly.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to talk to you, and then you’re going to kill yourself.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I can read people. You are in a depressive state and were on your way to the park to do just that: kill yourself. You probably have a small bottle of something deadly on you. Or a knife. Or were you going to jump off the bridge? Well, it doesn’t matter now. After our little chat, you’re going to kill yourself and those who know you will assume it’s because of the obvious: You’re so clearly depressed with life the only surprise will be why you took so long.”

“Shut up.”

The cabbie didn’t respond but pulled out two bottles, a pill in each. He placed them next to each other in front of them.

“Choose.”

“Choose what?”

“I’m giving you a choice; you can choose a bottle and take the pill or you can get a bullet in between your eyes.” He lifted the gun. “Your choice.”

“So one of these pills is the bad pill and the other is not?”

“Very good. I didn’t think you were smart.”

John gulped. The pills were identical as were the bottles.

“And now here is the fun part,” The cabbie spoke again, startling John. “Whatever pill you choose, I take the other and we both take our medicine.” 

John looked at the cabbie and then at the gun and then did he realise he too had a gun. He gulped and carefully observed the cabbie and the way he held the gun. It was then rather clear to him that the cabbie’s gun wasn’t real. He knew a real gun when he saw one and he felt rather stupid for not noticing it first.

“I’ll take the gun.”

The cabbie blinked and a small smile formed on his face. He then, without any warning, pulled the trigger, a small flame appearing. John let out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. The cabbie laughed quietly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. You’re just a lot smarter than you appear.”

John didn’t find anything funny and so he stood up quickly, no longer under threat and pulled out the gun from his coat, aiming it at the cabbie. The cabbie’s face fell as John released the safety off.

“You’re not that smart as you act like it.” John snapped back to him.

John, his hands steady, held the gun at the cabbie, and pulled out his phone, dialing the police.

                                   

 * * *

Police had surrounded the school. John had just explained the incident to a curly haired female officer when noise and loud yelling came from behind. The cabbie was already detained and in the back of a police car and nearby where all the yelling was occurring, was the senior detective (John could not remember his name) being yelled at by a tall, skinny man in a long coat.

“Don’t worry about that, Dr. Watson.” The female officer said while finishing up her notes. John just nodded, returning his attention back to the officer.

“Okay, I think we are done here.” The officer spoke, looking up at John. “Here is my card if there is anything else you feel is significant and Scotland Yard has your contact info-“ She was caught off guard by the tall skinny man who invaded the space between the officer and John and began yelling, at who John didn’t know.

“You are all imbeciles! Seriously! If you had listened to me in the first place none of this would’ve happened!” The tall man went on. And on. And on. John began growing impatient, wanting to ask the female officer if there was someone, a counselor of some sort, to talk to, but the tall man kept going on, causing officers, including the one John had talked to, pull annoyed faces and mutter words that John couldn’t hear. The tall man weaved his way through the crowd like a child who had too much sugar and bumped into John multiple times. After the fourth shove by the tall man, John lost his patience completely and snapped.

“Look, _sir_ , could you _please_ ,” He said politely but with his military tone, “ _shut up!_ These officers are trying to do their job and you getting in the way shouting at them isn’t going to get _me_ where I need to go!”  He shouted, the tall man stopped in his tracks. The man turned towards John who was leaning heavily on his cane. The man’s eyes swept down John as if examining him and without hesitance began yelling his observations rather quickly.

“You’re an army doctor, recently returned from either Afghanistan or Iraq. You were wounded but not in the leg but in the shoulder and yet you feel pain in your leg so it’s a psychosomatic limp you have which your therapists does not see. You are extremely depressed and have a hidden gun in your waistband underneath your coat and were on your way to kill yourself when you got into the ill-fated cab. You are suicidal but are not going to kill yourself any time soon now for an unknown reason, and you were just going to ask Sergeant Donavan for a recommendation of a counselor. Am I wrong?”

John blinked, completely not expecting that and although he believed it to be impressive, was rather pissed off at the mention of the gun and with a rush of anger, he punched the tall man sending him to the ground. Before two officers could swarm in to detain John, he grasped the man off the ground by the lapels of his coat and whispered, “Just because that was impressive does not mean I am not going to hurt you.” The tall man looked surprised at the word “impressive”, but before he could respond, John shoved the man back to the ground as officers swiftly lead him away.

 * * *

John sat in the office of the detective inspector – Lestrade – his hands handcuffed in front of him. After turning in his not so legal gun in he was detained and then sent to the DI’s office. It wasn’t long until the DI himself entered.

“I would like to apologize on behalf of Sherlock Holmes-”

“Who?”

“The man you punched for us all.”

“Oh…who is he?”

“Oh, he’s just someone we consult with for certain cases. Apparently he knew the previous four victims were murdered and hadn’t committed suicide like we had thought and he was rather pissed to find that the case was solved before he could get to it.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Dr. Watson, although you did assault someone in front of numerous officers, and you did have a illegal weapon on you, given what happened and the whole situation, myself and the superintendent have agreed to let you go without charges.”

“Oh, wow, thank you, sir.”

“However, we are issuing you to attend mandatory therapy sessions by someone we’ve worked with before, given that you were suicidal and do currently suffer from PTSD.”

John swallowed, embarrassed but understood and nodded in response.

Lestrade than sat up and unlocked the handcuffs from John and lead him out of the building with the information for the future therapy sessions.

“Good luck to you, Doctor.”

“Yeah, thanks.” John replied with a small smile and made his way back to his bedsit.

 

* * *

Two Months later

John had tried. Honestly. He had gone to every session required twice a week and tried very hard. But he couldn’t. The unknown that was his future stressed him out beyond repair. The way his life was now was lonely, cold, and almost as if he were a zombie—not living, just taking up space. He had tried to find someone, someone to connect with. He had been denied by every soul he went up to in bars and in coffee shops.

 _It was probably the cane_. He thought.

He took another sip of beer and glanced downward at the empty street. He then looked up at the sky, which was slowly turning from dark blue to early morning gray as the sun rose. He had booked a hotel room on the 8th floor of the St. Reagents Hotel last night without any overnight bag. He finished the beer and tossed the can onto the balcony. He was perched on the ledge, his feet dangling below him. The patio door was closed (but not locked) so he didn’t hear the front door opening.

 

 * * *

Sherlock Holmes was bored. He was on a case, but a rather boring one. He had nothing else to do and so that’s how he found himself undercover as part of the cleaning service of some hotel. But to prove the crime-simple money laundering-he had to actually _clean_ rooms. He pouted silently as he made his way from room 800 to 805, the next room on his list of checked out rooms. He knocked first, had learned that mistake of not knocking in room 609, and waited. There was no sound so he assumed the guest had gone down to an early breakfast. He unlocked the door and made his way in.

The room was exactly has it been before the guest had checked in. Sherlock looked around the room and there was almost nothing revealing that someone had checked out this room. Almost. There was an imprint of a body on the bed although the bed was fully and professionally made which indicated the person might’ve been to tired to actually get into bed. That possibility disappeared from his mind when his eyes fell on the figure outside on the balcony, not standing, but sitting on the ledge. Sherlock was caught off guard and for longer than he would admit, his brain froze. He had no idea what to do. He looked around and found nothing else relating to the man apart from what was clearly a suicide note on the small table in the corner. After he regained his senses, Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text to Lestrade.

Possible Suicide about to take place at St. Reagent’s Hotel, room 805. Man on ledge. Send help.

SH

Sherlock then made his way slowly and logically, knocked softly on the balcony door. The man flinched at the noise, his hands tightening their hold on the ledge. He sat up straighter and glanced behind his shoulder but didn’t object. Sherlock opened the door slowly. The man on the ledge didn’t ease at the intrusion but remained silent, not aggressive or in fear.

The two men remained where they where. Sherlock had no idea what to say and spent a considerable amount of seconds determining the best course of action. Finally he spoke, softly and in no way pitiful, “ It’s a bit cold to be outside, isn’t?”

            The man, clearly surprised at the relaxed tone Sherlock was using, didn’t answer right away. He let out a shaky breath and when Sherlock thought he would answer, he didn’t.

            “Maybe you want to come inside..?”

            “No, thank you, I’m fine….right here.” The man said, in a defensive tone.

            “You’re on the edge of the balcony…” Sherlock said, annoyed that _he_ stated the obvious.            

            “Clearly.” The man responded.

Sherlock didn’t know what the right thing was to say and that annoyed him.

            “…Do you want to tell me your name?”

            “Look, can you just go please? I’m fine on my own and I don’t need your help or your comfort so please just fuck off.” The man snapped.

            “Well, obviously you are not fine on your own since you are sitting in the edge of a balcony with eighty feet below you.” Sherlock snapped back. “And I am not going anywhere, not until the police arrive with the actual help.”

            “You…you called the police!?”

            “Of course. A man about to kill himself in public ought to have known somebody might call the police. Though you hoped that wouldn’t happen since you timed this to happen in the early morning. You just forgot about the cleaning service.”

            “…How did you know that I timed it?”

            “Obvious. The guest list says you checked in around 10 pm last night and from the evidence in the room you didn’t bring any possessions apart from the clothes on your back and your cane. You didn’t even bring your cell phone. You clearly put a lot of thought in this suicide with your ID and note on the table in clear view. The only question is…why?”

            “Wow…that was amazing…”

            “Really?” Sherlock said, surprised at the praise.

            “Yeah…” The man said quietly, apparently in thought. “That was really…impressive….um….have we met before? Those deductions…your voice…its all sort of familiar…”            

            “I doubt we have.”                       

            “Why, because I’m so _forgettable_?” The man spat out.

            Sherlock held back his response. He noticed the man was clearly agitated and so Sherlock held back his cold response and decided to say something safer.

            “Maybe…you saw me on the television. I’m…” Sherlock then thought to hell with the case. “I’m not actually part of the cleaning crew here. I’m undercover…maybe you saw me in the paper or something…like that.”

            “No…I know your voice. And those things you noticed…that was like…” And it finally dawned on the man. “Do you work with the police?”

            “Sort of.”

            “Were you at that school where that cabbie was caught two months ago?”

            Sherlock was confused by answered, “Yes, I was…”

            “You…” the man let out a laugh, catching Sherlock once again off guard. “You were that loud man that I…” The man didn’t finish as sirens began blaring, appearing closer and before he knew it, there were almost half a dozen emergency vehicles down below including an ambulance.

            Sherlock, clearly noticing the man tense up at the arrival of the emergency vehicles, began speaking a bit urgently.

            “Yes, I was there, and you were too. What were you doing there?”

            “I…I had punched you.”

            And at that, Sherlock remembered this man. He couldn’t remember his name but he remembered him, the man who had surprised him not with the punch but the words that were said to him after the punch: _“…that was impressive…”_

“You thought what I did was impressive.” Sherlock stated, in shock and annoyed slightly at himself for not remembering that _interesting_ man.

“Yeah…yeah I did…it was…fuck…you were so arrogant but so right.” The man said, looking up at the sky, trying to blink back his tears.. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Sherlock said. “I...I never apologize but I think I should…I’m sorry for what I had said…I probably got you into trouble with the whole gun thing…didn’t I?                                                

“Sort of…yeah you did…I was required to take therapy twice a week…”

“But?”

“But?”

“Well, clearly the therapy didn’t work,” Sherlock pointed out.

The man let out a soft laugh. “No it didn’t...and I honestly can’t tell you why I’m here…I just feel so...alone.” The man finished, giving up on holding back his tears.

“Well….maybe you just need a friend.”

“They’re all dead…or overseas.”

“A new friend?”

“Who would want to be my friend? I’m not interesting…or impressive like you”

“You’re interesting to me.”

That caught the man off guard for a second. “Wha-why? Why am I interesting to you?” The man let out quickly.

            “I’m embarrassed and annoyed that I didn’t recognize you as that man who punched me two months ago but I think that’s because you hide him. You keep that strong, military side of yourself hidden…not on purpose but because you think that that man you are isn’t needed…but I could use a friend like that…I don’t have any friends either.

            The man didn’t know what to say but turned slightly to look at Sherlock for the first time. Their eyes met but neither of them moving. The man was breathing slightly uneven, his eyes glistening and tears falling down his face. The man gulped but didn’t move. Sherlock took this opportunity to ask,            

            “Do you want to get down from there now?”           

            The man didn’t respond, his breathing hitching as more tears fell from his eyes but he nodded, slowly reaching out to Sherlock. At that Sherlock swiftly sprung forward, seizing the man and taking him down off the ledge and onto the balcony floor. Noise erupted from the ground but Sherlock paid no attention. He held the man in his arms as the man continued on crying and shaking all over from the cold. Sherlock remained where he was until the man’s shaking subsided and the tears stopped; all that was left was the man trying to catch his breath. He then slowly stood up, the man still clutching him in a sideways hug and Sherlock half carried the man into the room and sat him down on the bed.

Paramedics and some officers had made their way into the room already. A paramedic came up to the man and Sherlock placed a blanket over them. Sherlock was grateful, as was the man, that no one was trying to pry them apart for both these men needed someone, and now seemed to have found that person.

 

3 hours later

 

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the waiting room of Bart’s Hospital as the man, John Watson was his name, was being evaluated. He had been waiting for almost an hour and hoped he would get to see John. He was worried about what this meant for them because there was something he couldn’t understand that he had with the man and he wanted to see what that something was. A doctor walked towards Sherlock, who immediately stood up. The doctor went on explaining John’s condition and how he would be transported to a rehab facility and he was in no condition at the moment to been seen by anyone other than immediate family. Sherlock let out a noise of annoyance but understood and went to set up a visitation time with John.

\-----

            John was lying in a bed after being questioned for nearly an hour. He was being admitted to stay overnight at the hospital and was required to be admitted into a rehab hospital that dealt with people like him for at least a month. After that he had no idea where he was going. And that was frightening him. That man who helped him down off the ledge, Sherlock was his name had seemed earnest in being friends and John, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, was really looking forward to that.

* * *

One day later

John was currently lying on his bed in the small room provided for him by the rehab center. He had been for the past 3 hours since arriving and his future being in the rehab center currently resigned in his mind and that depressed him even more. He was given a full schedule of therapy sessions, leisure time, activities, and chores he was required to do and although he appreciated that he wouldn’t have spare time to let his thoughts get to him, he was afraid—afraid of something he couldn’t quite put a name too.

There was then a knock at the door, which startled him out of his thoughts, and he slowly got up, grabbing his cane and then made his way to the door. There was no peek hole so he couldn’t be prepared for whom he saw after opening the door.

            It was Sherlock Holmes, the man that talked him off the ledge. John had convinced himself that the man had just said what he had to in order to get him off the ledge and didn’t actually want to become friends. He had convinced himself that after he had even gotten over it after a pathetic breakdown the night before.

            And yet, here Sherlock Holmes was, standing right in front of him, with an expression somewhere between amusement, curiosity, and worry.

            “John Watson, was it? Aren’t you going to let me in?” He said.

            “Oh…right, yeah. Sorry-”           

            “No need to apologize. You clearly were convinced that I had made everything up, that I didn’t mean what I told you when you…were on the ledge.” He said, glancing around the room and then taking a seat at the small table.

            John didn’t know what to say= _here was this (gorgeous) man who actually wanted to be friends_? John didn’t know and was afraid to find out. _Maybe the man was just here to accept a thank you…or something._ Thoughts like that began entering John’s mind and he shook his head, a habit he developed before he had gone to the hotel, to clear out those hazardous thoughts that led to him to that balcony.            

            “Are…you okay?” Sherlock asked, bringing John back out from his mind.

He blushed, embarrassed to have forgotten there was an actual person here.

            “Sorry-“

            “You don’t need to apologize John.”

            “I’m s—…I…” he gulped; he hadn’t really interacted with anyone in a while and the connection he and Sherlock had was…a unique one.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but offered up what John thought was his attempt at a comforting expression. John gulped again.

“I…I should…I…fuck…just...mmm…thank you…for doing what you did.” He finally said, his cheeks heating, no doubt very red now. He kept his gaze on the floor.

Sherlock didn’t speak at first, but then softly responded.

“You’re welcome. I admit I’m not very good with interacting with people but I felt I at least should see how you were doing.

Silence infiltrated the room and neither one of them moved. John had already sat down in front of Sherlock so his leg wasn’t in any pain and he kept his gaze focused on the floor. The silence wasn’t awkward as it could have been, but there was some tension in the air John was too afraid to question. Luckily for him, Sherlock hated the feeling of unease.

“Do you want to be friends?” He asked suddenly, causing John to suddenly shift his gaze up at Sherlock. “Because I was honest when I said I didn’t have any and thought we…” He stopped.

“I…yes…I do, I really do…” John responded, the tension suddenly disappearing. “I have to admit I was…uh afraid…that you didn’t want…to…”

“I do.” Sherlock said, his tone comforting, his expression gentle.

            Although the tension had left the room, John had one question for Sherlock that would allow John to not worry about his future.

            “Why?”

Sherlock was caught off guard and it was evident on his face, which told John to elaborate.

“Why…do you want to be friends?”

“Oh well I find you interesting…which is rather rare. And I also…I feel this need to make sure you’re okay. We’ve met twice and I think…well my mother told me it must be fate but I don’t believe in that.

“You told your mother about me?” John asked, rather amused.

“I…” Sherlock eyes grew ever so slightly, aware now at what he just told John. “I did…what do you suppose you could make of that?”

“You tell me.” John said, his voice not soft anymore, but confident which was striking to Sherlock. Sherlock looked into John’s eyes and saw a slight glint of amusement...and something else that Sherlock was not used to seeing. Without thinking of the possible consequences, Sherlock blurted out, with a slight smirk etched on his face,            

“Are you flirting with me?”

            John’s smile, which had only begun growing, faltered slightly, the gleam in his eyes dissipating. He tried to recover from that abrupt question but Sherlock caught his shift in emotion and realised what he had asked must’ve sounded harsher than he meant and so he quickly recuperated.

            “I mean…I don’t know whether or not you’re flirting and I would like to know if you are so that…I could…flirt back.” Sherlock said, his eyes skittering across John’s face, to the floor, and back.

            John’s smile grew slightly at that reassurance, and shyly looked at Sherlock, who smiled back.

            The two men continued talking until a nurse came to tell Sherlock visiting hours were now over and he could come back next Saturday to visit. Sherlock was reluctant to leave John, but John reassured him he would be fine and he looked forward to his next visit. And with that Sherlock left John, both men looking forward to a much brighter future.

*  *   *    

            Epilogue, two months later

            John easily made his way down the stairs to the lobby of the rehab hospital, his bag in tow. Although he was feeling unease in the pit of his stomach, he knew it was just nerves. His mind then shifted from his nerves to Sherlock, who was standing near the front desk.

            “Hello.” John greeted him, a smile forming on his face.

            “Hello.” Sherlock responded, eyes roaming across John’s features, taking everything in. Though they had just seen each other last Saturday, Sherlock could now see even more on how John’s improved within the last two months. He still looked tired, but the gleam in his eyes was alive and never fading, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth ever so noticeable. Sherlock was brought out of his mind from the feeling of John’s hand pressed in his and he looked down at their conjoined hands and then back up at John.

            “Ready to go?” John asked.

            “Oh, God yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: St. Reagents Hotel is completely made up
> 
> *if this gets some hits/kudos i may do a sequel :)*  
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading ^.^ 
> 
> follow me on tumblr: heavenlymindpalace.tumblr.com


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